


As long as the guitar plays

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art teacher Fielding, Banter, Definitely banter, Domestic Bliss, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluffy, M/M, Music teacher Barratt, Noelian but AU Noelian, Plot with no porn and minimal mischief, They're married in this one, eventually, soft, that's a first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: "The ladies of the English department think it's well romantic, the dashing Mr. Barratt with his windswept curls and his pretty, electric-eyed husband still being in the honeymoon phase after seven - or was it eight? nine? - years of marriage."A one shot in three parts. Sweet, soft, fluffy, domestic bliss, with a school trip, and some inappropriate making out, as requested. (And maybe a couple sneaky references to someone’s curvy back.)
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 26
Kudos: 22





	As long as the guitar plays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starsonthebrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsonthebrow/gifts), [klimt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klimt/gifts).



> Faffing around on Tumblr, I dredged [this picture](https://kateyboosh.tumblr.com/post/620021233270046720/youspeakshit-kateyboosh-via) of Julian up from the depths. And klimt came up with the best headcanon in the tags for music teacher Barratt married to art teacher Fielding. And killahdillah requested the fic in the tags, and listen. I am powerless against good, good tags. And also, you're both awesome, and it was a delight to write this for yous. Hope you like!

**Autumn Term**

It’s a long day of lessons, teaching the Year Twos about the difference between ascending and descending scales. By noon, Julian’s tied more shoelaces and picked up more discarded pencils and paper airplanes and wiped more tears than he can count. His phone buzzes on his desk as the next group files in, the Year Ones slouching down in their chairs after dinner break, tiny faces half-drowsy and smudged with jam. When he glances down, his husband’s name is glowing on the screen, his message laid over a photo of the two of them on the beach during their honeymoon in Spain.

“ _i hope most of them were the kids tears and not yours mr barratt x”_

Julian grins. He clears his throat and picks up the brightest blue chalk on offer, drawing a squiggling line on the board as he speaks. “Right. Today, we’re going to talk about pitch,” he says, dropping his voice to the lowest in his register, before rocketing back up to near falsetto at the end of his sentence. It catches the kids’ attention right away. A chorus of giggles float down the hallway as Mr. Barratt wields his chalk and his guitar and makes funny faces and patiently goes about the business of teaching 25 young minds about the building blocks of music.

* 

Julian walks home, dropping his keys and bag in the hall and tossing his cardigan on the hook next to the door. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, smoothing a hand over his curls as an “In here, Julian” follows the Stones riff drifting out from the kitchen. When Julian peeks his head around the corner, Noel’s poking at a pan on the range with tongs in one hand, absentmindedly reaching for the volume on the radio above the sink with the other. 

“Smells good. What’s on?” His hand falls to Noel’s hip as he looks over his shoulder into the pan on the stove. 

“Stir fry,” Noel breathes, leaning back into him, abandoning his tongs in an empty serving bowl on the countertop. “Biscuits for afters.” His hair tickles Julian’s nose as he nods his head toward a plate piled high with iced treats.

Julian grins as Noel half-turns, his hand coming to rest on Julian’s chest. “Mmm. I’m spoiled,” he rumbles out before Noel leans up to brush their lips together, slow at first, then deepening when Julian’s other hand comes up to cup his jaw.

They kiss until the fadeout of the song, when the insistent sizzle of the pan on the range is too much to ignore. Noel stretches in his socked feet, his words buzzing soft and ticklish against Julian’s lips, his voice low and soft and teasing.

“Alright, get off me before it burns and all my hard work goes in the bin. And don’t even think about pinching one of them biscuits and ruining your appetite.”

Julian kisses him again, a series of light pecks as he backs away, sliding his hands off Noel’s hips to put them up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Whatever you say. ‘Yes, darling dearest heart, light of my life and my loins,’ and all that nonsense.” He walks backwards out of the kitchen, smiling all the way, heading to shower and change before dinner.

Noel shakes his head and tosses the stir fry, then turns the heat off and covers the pan. When he hears the water turn on in the bathroom, he pops a biscuit in his mouth, and pushes the takeaway cartons and pink bakery box further down in the bin. If he’s grinning like a loon at the thought of licking at the trails of warm water sluicing down Julian’s broad back and shoulders in about a minute’s time tops, he doesn’t notice.

Hmm. Minute and a half, he reckons. Give himself enough time to get out of his drainpipes. And maybe have another biscuit.

*

The flicker of the television skates across their dirty dishes on the low coffee table. Tiny foxes skitter and jump in the too-green grass on the screen, tinging Noel’s features with an eerie glow as Julian rubs his feet in their mismatched socks. He sighs, pointing his toes up as Julian knuckles at his arch, Julian’s other hand curled around his ankle.

The combination of the hard studio floor and the three inch heels on his boots kill his feet by the end of the day. When he’d first started giving private art lessons at his studio, Julian had jokingly suggested he switch to something sensible if he was going to be on his feet all day. Trainers with orthopedic inserts, perhaps. He still smiles secretly to himself remembering the shocked expression on Noel’s face at the mere insinuation.

“Think we could stay like this for the next hundred years?” Noel sighs. 

“Might do. Someone should probably take care of the washing up first, before we settle in.”

Noel closes his eyes, humming his agreement. His words are lazy as Julian rubs at the ball of his foot.

“I cooked. It’s only fair that you do the washing up. It’s in the domestic handbook. Page eleven, section two, lines three through six. ‘All strong, broad, manly Northern men who get treated to a home cooked meal after a hard day’s graft must put on the kitchen gloves afterward and scrub every pot, pan, and utensil in sight.’”

He misses Julian’s raised brow and bemused grin.

“You cooked, then, did you?”

“Uh huh,” he breathes, opening his eyes when Julian pauses the movement of his hand. Noel arranges his face into the picture of innocent sincerity. He’s got the brows right, but his pursed lips and the mischievous glint in his eyes are magnified by the glow of the telly.

Julian raises both brows at him this time.

“Huh. Didn’t realize you’d gone part time at the takeaway,” he responds wryly, the corner of his mouth twisting up as he resumes the foot rub, his touch ticklish this time.

“How dare you,” Noel giggles, drawing his leg back to tap at Julian’s thigh. “I slaved over that stir fry. I was in absolute agony over how much ginger to put in.”

“... there wasn’t any in.”

“Exac’ly,” Noel nods. “Spent so much time worrying how much to put in that I ran out of time. Had to nip down and get the takeaway instead.”

Julian feigns horror. “That’s your domestic goddess license revoked; I believe that falls under chapter fourteen, page three forty seven, line sixteen in the handbook. I suppose you’ll tell me you got the biscuits at that bakery by the studio next.”

Noel gives him a lopsided smile.

Julian mirrors the grin, running a finger along his husband’s arch, poking at his heel. “You’re daft.”

Noel pulls his feet away to crawl up the sofa into his husband’s arms. nuzzling his nose into Julian’s neck. His lips are warm and soft against Julian’s scruff.

“Which one of the nippers taught you that insult?”

It’s the flickery tone that creeps into his voice as he tries to keep it light and steady that gives him away.

Even though Julian can't see his face in their position in the dark, he knows Noel misses his days teaching young kids instead of stroppy teenagers. When Julian had received the offer to teach at a primary further north with a pay rise neither could argue with, they’d discussed it, found a flat with a studio nearby, and moved at the end of the term. So the brooding Mr. Barratt who’d taught music theory and Zeppelin riffs to the equally moody teens at the secondary school switched to teaching scales and songs about lambs to the children at the primary. And the energetic Mr. Fielding who’d tackled finger painting and collage with the children at the primary around the corner from his husband moved into his studio space and picked up his charcoals and pastels for afternoons spent with sulky teens whose parents insisted on private lessons.

Julian kisses the top of his head in lieu of an answer. He snuggles his husband tighter against his chest until they both settle, the flicker of the telly hypnotic on the walls and ceiling.

They fall asleep lulled by the gentle waves of the other’s quiet breathing. When Julian wakes in the small hours of the morning, he groans and runs his hand down the smooth dip of Noel’s back, whispering his name until he wakes. They stumble quietly out of the living room. Noel rests his head on his husband’s shoulder, clinging onto the back of Julian’s t-shirt as they walk down the hall and slip into the soft sheets waiting on their big, comfy bed.

For that night, washing up be damned.

*

Julian wakes the next morning with Noel’s face pressed into his stomach where his t-shirt has ridden up during the night. He can feel Noel’s lashes moving feather light across his skin as he blinks himself slowly awake. He’s still half asleep; the rare drowsy feeling is heavy on his limbs and lids. If it wasn’t a school day, he could shut his eyes and open them hours later. Past noon, even, with the way he’s feeling.

He comes a little closer to surfacing into consciousness as Noel presses lazy kisses to his bare stomach, his hand and mouth warm on Julian’s skin as weak sunlight starts to flood their room. Julian’s hand drifts to cup the back of Noel’s head as Noel murmurs a “g’morning” to him, his fingertips curling into the band of Julian’s pajama pants as he slides them lower down his body.

If Julian's five or so minutes late to the morning staff meeting before classes that day, jogging in a bit flushed with his hair a tad more askew than usual, his colleagues pretend not to notice. The ladies of the English department think it's well romantic, the dashing Mr. Barratt with his windswept curls and his pretty, electric-eyed husband still being in the honeymoon phase after seven - or was it eight? nine? - years of marriage.

**Spring Term**

Julian walks home in a wet, cold February drizzle, the persistent rain sopping his hair and shoulders and bypassing his scarf to trickle down inside the collar of his coat by the time he has the door open to the flat. It’s warm inside, but quiet and dark. Odd. He frowns as he toes off his boots and shakes the rain off his coat.

Noel’s curled up in a blanket on the sofa in the living room, the light from his phone brighter than the dim gray sliding in through the window. Julian leans over him for a kiss hello. He’s surprised when Noel chucks his phone on the coffee table, the noise from the sudden impact startling in the quiet room. He pulls Julian down instead, his arms tight and squeezing around Julian’s shoulders.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Julian murmurs, his hand coming up to stroke Noel’s hair.

“This day,” Noel responds flatly. “Was raining when I got up. Was raining when I left the flat. Was pissing down by the time I left the studio. It fucked up my mood, and it fucked up my hair, and I didn’t stop to get anything for dinner. I’m sorry, Julian,” he adds, his scowl disappearing somewhere around his soft-voiced apology.

“Nothing to be sorry about. We can go out tonight. If you want.” Julian smooths his guitar-callused fingertips behind Noel’s ear, light and soft and steady, his ring finger tracing the delicate curve. Noel breathes into it, his eyes falling closed. It’s one of his favorite places to feel Julian’s touch on his body, and Julian knows it. He feels Noel’s grip around his shoulders loosening as he relaxes beneath him.

Julian clears his throat.

“Were lessons today…?”

“Rough.” Noel states. His voice is still flat and full of upset.

“Mmm.” Julian shifts, dropping his lips close to Noel’s ear. “Maybe it’s time for a change,” he whispers.

Despite his frustration, Noel whispers back. “Maybe. Dunno how that’ll come about.” Quiet, small, resigned.

Julian leans back, waiting for Noel to open his eyes. “There’s going to be an opening next term. In the art department. Mrs. Davies gave her resignation today. Her daughter’s moving for work, and she wants to go with her to terrorize her grandkids. I mean, to spend more time with her grandkids.”

The glow that comes into Noel’s eyes immediately spills over into his voice.

“D’you really think I could get it, Julian? D’you really think it could work?” 

Julian grins back at him. “Yeah." _Especially if the English department has anything to say about it_.

He peppers kisses all over his husband’s laughing, hopeful face.

*

They decide to go out, down to the cafe on the corner, to celebrate change and new possibilities. Noel springs up from the sofa, pulling his silky buttondown over his head. He lopes to the bathroom, turning on the shower as Julian makes himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. 

Before he undresses, he goes back out to plug in his abandoned phone to charge. It’s been a long time since he’s updated his CV, and he’ll need to order a new portfolio later tonight when they get back, and he’d better start planning his outfit now. Sharpish, but colorful… get the accessories just right... maybe order those new boots he saw scrolling through Topshop the other day....

When he gets back to the bathroom, Julian's cup of tea is on the sink ledge, and Julian’s waiting for him in the shower. There are traces of shampoo bubbles left in his hair when he steps out.

He shrugs, meeting Noel’s bemused expression. "Quicker this way… I'm starving."

Julian takes his time peeling the rest of his husband’s clothes off before guiding him under the spray, the trickles of water coming off of his fingertips rolling down Noel’s hips making him shiver in the steam.

*

“What cafe did you want to go to? That posher one, or the greasy spoon around the corner?” Julian asks. His towel’s abandoned on the floor as he rifles through the dresser drawers for vest and pants.

Noel flips through the shirts in their closet with one hand, standing slightly pigeon toed in his pants as he rakes his other hand through his damp hair. He grabs a black blouse printed with sprays of flowers for himself and a white buttondown for his husband.

“Why? You letting me pick your outfit?”

When he turns, Julian is scratching at his face. Noel giggles. It’s funny to see him acting so shy when he’s not wearing a stitch.

“No. Well, yeah, that’s fine,” he says, waving his hand in the direction of the buttondown. “The posh one closes in....” He checks the alarm clock on their bedside table. “An hour, but the other’s open til late.”

“Too much grease, too much salt, too much sugar, way too late at night,” Noel muses. “It’ll be like when you were at university and I was at art college.”

Julian nods, then darts his eyes to the bed and back to Noel in his little blue pants.

Noel grins at him, tongue coming out to rest in the corner of his mouth. 

“How hungry were you, again?”

Julian shrugs, scratching at his face again. 

Exactly like when Julian was at university and Noel was at art college.

**Summer Term**

It’s a long day wrangling the kids through the seemingly neverending labyrinth of rooms and corridors and exhibits at the museum. By noon, Julian’s tied more shoelaces and picked up more abandoned backpacks and jackets than he can count. No wiping tears today, thankfully; the kids are as excited as Noel is to be out of the classroom on an outing in the spring weather.

Julian’s not sure if the kids are bouncing from Noel’s enthusiasm, or if Noel’s giddy from their combined energy as they pull him around by the hand from one exhibit to the next. He can hear the combined babble of the kids followed by his husband’s cackle echoing off the high ceilings one room over. He smiles.

_He was nervous the morning of his interview, waves of energy rolling off of him, pacing by the door as Julian got his bag and the keys to the flat and his phone and switched to a different blazer so he’d have space enough in the pockets for Noel’s phone too. Noel had already switched shirts twice after finding paint on the sleeves of the first and ink dotted on the second. He’d had a tiny breakdown in their bedroom, biting his nails on one hand while trying not to touch his hair with the other, holding his hand away from his body stiffly._

_“You’re interviewing to be a primary school art teacher, remember?” Julian had reminded him, wrapping him bare chested in a hug until he felt the tension melt out of Noel’s shoulders. “Tools of the trade. Jess already loves you. Besides, she’ll probably have Pritt Stick in her hair and paint under her nails already this morning.”_

_Once he’d settled and dressed and made it down to the hallway, Julian had kissed him slowly, sweetly, trying to pour reassurance and calm into him while soaking up some of his nerves. He’d brushed back a lock of stray hair off of his cheek and told him he was going to do great, charm them all._

_“Go on, then,” he’d said, nodding at the door. “Good luck, Mr. Fielding.”_

_Noel had tucked his portfolio under his arm, taken a deep breath, and gone for the front door. Julian knew - he knew right then, clear as day - when Noel looked over his shoulder with a half smile and reached back for his hand, that they’d be doing this every morning for years to come. He slipped his big, warm hand into Noel’s, feeling the cool weight of his wedding band against his palm as they walked, and he smiled._

He can still feel the touch of their intertwined hands from that morning, the need and want in the grip of Noel’s fingers. They walk to the primary together every morning now in the same way, Noel’s grip calm and content. Happy.

By the time the teachers and students have sat down for lunch outside in the sunlit museum courtyard, Julian's ready for a nap. The other teachers have the kids wrangled; they're peaceful and drowsy between the excitement of their morning activity and the sun and food and soft grass. Noel’s stretched out on the grass with his eyes closed, snoring exaggeratedly and loudly as the Williams twins giggle and slot dandelions and clover into his hair like a crown.

Julian steps back inside to do one last round before they leave, looking for any abandoned belongings he’d missed on his first sweep. He winds up in a small gallery between the butterfly exhibits in a room full of orchids. There are benches throughout; he sits gratefully, rolling his shoulders, and sighs. The petals are beautifully bright, a riot of color. Even so, he feels his lids droop.

It’s not long until he hears the click of heels on the well-polished floor. How Noel manages to wear them all day chasing after enthusiastic Year Ones, he’ll never know. He feels the heat from the sun-warmed body behind him.

“Wondered where you’d popped off to,” Noel says absentmindedly, studying the fine veins of blue running down the soft petals of a nearby orchid. He smooths his hand down Julian’s back, coming up to touch the curls at the back of his neck, the cool brush of his wedding band on Julian’s skin soothing. He tugs at Julian’s collar.

“C’mere, Ju. I wanna show you something before we go.”

It's a little alcove. No orchids or butterflies or dinosaur bones or sculpture or exhibits. Nothing special, just a small, bare-walled space in between two galleries. He doesn't realize what he's looking at until Noel pulls him in, pulls him close, and Julian's hands fall naturally to the smooth curve of his back. And they trade kisses back and forth, Noel’s lips opening as Julian kisses him breathless, long and slow and deep.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe they’re kissing to [Torn and Frayed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khRFhrhcJrs) by the Stones in the kitchen, because that’s where the title came from, maybe they’re not.
> 
> "As long as the guitar plays, let it steal your heart away"


End file.
